The Point?

Yesterday on CBC radio they interviewed a woman from Edmonton who, when her kids were finally grown, sold everything she owned and moved to Kigali to help women whose lives had been all but destroyed by the Rwandan genocide. Hers was a powerful story of risk, faith, fear and a determination to do her "small" part in helping. Since 2004, using privately-raised funds she has set up a centre to create employment and other opportunities for this community of women and their families.
Talk about a dynamo--the kind of person who, as I wait for the novel to percolate in my head, makes me wonder yet again: what is the point of writing fiction? What possible illustrative (or other) effects can a made-up story have?
Let's pretend.
It feels hard to justify in this world of urgent wants and calls for action. Yet, as all of you who write know, writing seems to be this thing we are given; until we give in to it, our days feel unsettled, random, unfulfilled, in short, pissed away. Why? Is it that we write to keep us from thinking of all we should be doing--is it a buffer against mountainous sins of omission?
When I first started writing, it was escape pure and simple--momentary escapes from diapers, laundry, peanut butter fingerprints when my dear boys were tiny. But as I have grown into writing--and have become almost but not quite an empty-nester--it has become less escape and more duty and obligation. The long and short of it is I make it harder to do. I expect far more of myself and the craft--a justification? A rationalization?
Maybe, maybe not.
Because there remains a sense of rightness, of satisfaction, in finding the words, in uncovering the arc. I suppose this is so because I still believe, I hope I will always believe, that there is honour in seeking order, worth in giving experience shape and meaning--and that in attempting to do so, perhaps the way is made a little brighter for others? That is, if and when we are read.
We live in hope.
Onwards, good buddies.